


I'm Not This

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Memories, Crying, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Flashbacks, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Nightmares, Nudity, POV Sam Winchester, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, Sam Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Sam Winchester Whump, Season/Series 14, Sexual Violence, Shame, Sort Of, Violent Thoughts, Vomiting, Wet Dream, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Sam has intrusive thoughts about Nick.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Nick/Sam Winchester, Non-Consensual Pairings
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	I'm Not This

**Author's Note:**

> It's not completely uncommon for rape survivors to have intrusive thoughts, or even have intrusive thoughts about being the one in power, or have instances of flashbacks here and there, and such distressing thoughts can turn the body on, and sometimes it is hard to not act on them and fulfill oneself in a way that doesn't hurt others. Does that make the survivor a bad person? Of course not. I just thought it'd be painfully realistic to write such a thing with Sam, and I do love him so much.

Sam didn’t know he was waking up at first, was just shifting and groaning as the thoughts in his head dug into his body and warmed his blood. Nick. 

Nick slammed against a wall in the bunker, Sam buried deep into him, hand squeezing his balls and the base of his cock till it brought pain.

And Nick didn’t fight back in this. He couldn’t. He didn’t enjoy it, no. It was something that might’ve made Sam’s conscious mind sick, but he was the one with power, the one with control.

He cried out with Lucifer’s voice, and heaved against him with Lucifer’s body, and bled with Lucifer’s blood.

And Sam did this to him with his own body.

He rolled onto his back, arm crossed way over his chest, blankets pulling awkwardly at him. His eyelids were heavy, and there was pressure in his pelvis, sweat on his skin. Sam was in his bed. He contemplated opening his eyes, but the dark comfort of sleep took him again, and his dreams rolled into him.

He had a hand over Nick’s mouth, and his fingers squeezed at his nose.

Now he throttled him as he showed his power over him, showed him he wasn’t Lucifer’s bitch, that he wasn’t afraid just because he was in his home.

Oh god, yes, the slide of his skin was nice against his cock. Sam was in charge of it, was the commander of this violence.

A groan left him, and he sleepily opened up his eyes, even as his hand ran up and down over his hardened length that he must’ve freed from his pajama bottoms some moments ago. There wasn’t much thought to what he was doing. Some horror and disgust trickled into his stomach, memories of a hand that was Nick’s but hadn’t belonged to him at the time doing the very same to his body as he did now, but it wasn’t enough to stop. Pleasure flooded him, crashing like waves against rocky cliffs and dragging some of them down into the depths as the water pulled back. It left Sam just a little more worn away with each pump of his hand.

He thrashed his leg as his thumb brushed over his frenulum, fingers squeezing, pumping hard, the rough skin of his palm becoming his again. Yes, just like that.

It’d been a month since he’d done this. Maybe more. God, it was embarrassing.

Sam was going to make a mess of himself, or his pajamas, the sheets. He’d have to wash his hand.

Cheeks reddening, and not just from arousal, he pulled his hand back, trying to steady his breathing. He stared up at the fan, sweaty hair fanned out on his pillow.

“What the hell,” he murmured to himself.

Sam was still hard, and his mind had yet to fully drift away from the grotesque fantasies. But, he was awake.

He put the hand to his face that hadn’t been in his pants, and groaned.

_God, what is wrong with me?_

For a second he wanted to whine, he wanted to cry. His balls were starting to ache. And mmph, he was burning, especially along the underside of his shaft, and right on his head. Sam kicked out at his mattress.

“Fuck!”

Breathing slow and heavy, he brought his hand back to himself, and closed his eyes. Puffing out a long breath, he felt the fiery tingles take him, and he tried to just get this over with, knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to focus till he took care of it.

_Besides,_ he told himself, _there’s nothing bad about masturbating. Increases heart rate and blood flow. Supposed to create serotonin and dopamine. Increase in blood cells that fight infection…_

Sam told himself these things, but still felt horrible.

And the images wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just flashes of Lucifer running his hands over his bare skin, or the feel of him against him. It was Nick. It was Sam in Nick, taking Nick.

God, how he wanted to do it. He wanted to fuck him, just to have something, just to have power.

He wouldn’t be this. He refused to be this pathetic man who felt tears building in his eyes just from touching himself. He wanted to fuck again, and fuck the Devil’s empty body if he could. Oh god, he’d go at him nice and hard, make him hurt, make him scream.

He was right there, just a floor below him, all locked up, and helpless.

Sam’s prisoner.

And Sam was the one in charge, the one who could open the door and step in, reach out…

_Oh yes, yes, yes…_ Sam thought as he saw skin, flesh, bodies, imagined cum, and heat, ecstasy reaching deep, pleasure reaching up through his balls and pushing outward.

His mouth moved soundlessly, head tilted back, exposing his flushed neck. A bead of sweat dripped down onto the pillow. His hips arched upwards.

With his free hand he reached up and gripped the headboard, wood creaking as his knuckles turned white. There was no coming out of his moment to grab a tissue to catch his release in, and Sam ended up sullying himself.

He lay there, catching his breath, relaxing his grip on the headboard, and looking down at his pajama shirt he’d have to clean. His thoughts were clearing as his cock softened, and now utter disgust and hate putrefied in his stomach, as something much darker continued to ache and spread like an infection in his chest and diaphragm. There was a clinical word for these feelings, but Sam refused to acknowledge its existence. That would surely make it stronger. Right?

“God, you’re a freak,” he told himself.

Thoughts of… of…

Oh god.

_Oh god._

He hurried up out of his bed, almost tripping and falling since he was tangled up in his sheets. And now he growled in frustration at the sheer difficulty of trying to get his shirt off. The cotton fabric seemed to cling to his skin, and he had to wipe his face with the horrendous thing once it was off of him. He threw it in the trash can by the sink, and then made quick work of his pajama bottoms and red boxers, hopping on one foot to do so. Once they were in the trash, he quickly found another pair of boxers, knowing he couldn’t be naked for too long. No, he couldn’t have that. 

He barely looked at his body. It didn’t even matter that he ate right and worked out every day. His body was something to be ashamed of, especially now when his cock was red and not fully softened, and the tip was wet. And oh _god_ , why couldn’t his boxers just go up his left thigh?

Sam was breathing heavy now, mouth making too much saliva, but his body couldn’t be doing this. Not yet.

He had to find what he needed.

He searched through his desk once he was at least somewhat clothed.

Where was it, where was it?

Aha!

Sam was so frantic, the container of oil slipped through his fingers, but then he had it, and grabbed a book of matches from the top of his desk. Sure, maybe the fire alarms would set off, but he had a sink right here. Besides, he’d set plenty of things on fire before, and the pajamas he’d worn while… while getting off to _that_ needed to go. God, Sam almost wanted to salt them first, see if he could send them to Hell.

He poured the oil in the trash, and the plastic container was on its last legs, so he let it fall in, and then he lit a match — which he didn’t succeed at till his third try — and dropped it in. The clothes blessedly set fire, and a tear rolled down Sam’s cheek. That was when he pitched forward and threw up on his little cleansing ritual he was attempting, singing his cheeks, and putting out the meager flickers of flame. Sam gripped the trash can, sliding from his crouch down to his knees, and his tears fell to mix with the rising smoke.

_I’m not this._

The thought wasn’t enough, so he croaked out between forcing down heaves, “I’m not this.”


End file.
